Relapse
by mwesthall
Summary: Rated M for drugs & violence. WIP. Not sure right now exactly where else this is going to go from here. *Spoiler Alert* This takes place post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

Two years. Two years since that fateful afternoon. The last time that Sherlock Holmes had been seen alive. Sherlock Holmes: the great detective, the gifted musician, the brilliant and infuriating madman – and John's best friend.

He had waited far too long to go back to therapy, that was obvious. Eighteen months spent vacillating between the relative stability of a job at St. Bart's, a new girlfriend, and keeping an active social life with his army mates, and a crushing despair in which the mates were avoided, the girlfriend out of the picture, and the job kept but only just. It gradually got worse as time went by, so gradually that John didn't notice the pattern and how the periods of depression were getting longer and more intense, and the "normal" periods more desperate; he kept himself busy at work and only took a break if someone reminded him, and the girlfriend was a different woman every time. He still never drank much when he and the lads went out, due to Harry's troubles, but their nights on the town were raucous affairs that provided an escape, if only for one night at a time on weekends.

It was after one of these nights that he realised he needed help, and badly. He'd opted against bringing a companion home, though he easily could have, and stumbled into the flat and up the many stairs and into his bed and fell quite soundly asleep. He woke up on the sitting room floor at half-past two in the afternoon, clutching Sherlock's violin to his chest and weeping bitterly. As soon as he'd got his bearings, he fetched his mobile and dialled his old therapist's number.

Six months of intensive outpatient care and now a weekly grief support group and John was finally starting to get a grip. He worked hard but not frantically, enjoyed a more relaxed social life, and decided it was better for everyone if he stayed single for a while. Things were sorting themselves out, and he was beginning to feel alright again. The pain was more a dull ache, still coming and going in waves, but becoming easier to manage. He and Mrs. Hudson had grown apart but were again spending time together, with tea and crap telly in the evenings and breakfast out every other Sunday. He had never been comfortable with such stillness, but was learning to be content with everything being quiet, calm, and predictable.

Naturally, this meant that something was bound to pop up and turn it all completely on its head.

It was a Tuesday evening. The kettle had just boiled, and John had switched off the stove and poured the hot water into his tea mug. Grabbing the tin that held the tea bags, he pulled the lid off and fished for one of the sachets, which he then plopped gently into the cup before returning the tin to its former state. While it steeped, he sought out the milk and sugar. Thus obtained, he spooned the tea bag out of the cup, stirred in a splash of milk and a liberal sprinkling of sugar, and brought it over to the sofa, where a ham and cheese sandwich was waiting. He settled himself into the old leather cushions and picked up the remote control. He flicked through the channels until he came upon on a sitcom he'd never seen before and figured it was as good as anything. He started in on his modest meal and relaxed into the banality of television.

He'd just taken the first bite of the second half of the sandwich when the doorbell rang. He wasn't expecting anyone, so he let Mrs. Hudson answer it. It was but a moment before he heard her shuffle out from her own flat on the main floor, muttering to herself. John heard her unlatch the front door, heard it creak open and a heavy set of footsteps enter. Mrs. Hudson seemed surprised to see the person, whoever it was. They spoke – it was a man's voice. The man asked a question, and when she answered the footsteps moved quickly to the stairs and ascended them quickly, probably two at a time. John looked towards the flat door as it burst open.

"What on Earth -?"

"I'm sorry I didn't knock but it's important." Detective Inspector Lestrade was standing in the doorway, his face a strange mix of excitement and utter confusion. "There's a patient at Bart's, looks like an overdose, and -"

"No, wait, hang on a second." John had shut off the telly and was on his feet now. "What the Hell are you doing here? Why would you come about a patient? I'm not an ER doctor and if they really needed me they'd phone me. What are you doing here? Why would they send you?"

Lestrade's words came out in a rush. "Nobody sent me, Molly Hooper phoned. She was on her way home when the ambulance turned up. Now, normally she doesn't bother with this sort of thing but she was really close – had to park in a different lot or something – and she saw the gurney and recognised him so she followed them along until she could be sure she really recognised him, then she -"

"Wait, slow down. What did she realise? Who was it? What's going on?" John was bewildered. He hadn't seen Lestrade in about a year, and suddenly here he was, talking far too quickly and making very little sense about Molly and some patient at the hospital.

Lestrade took a breath and ran a hand over his hair. "Sorry. Jesus, John. It's him. It's Sherlock bloody Holmes. He's alive."


	2. Chapter 2

Despite having worked at Bart's for the last two years, the hospital looked very bleak indeed as John hurried through the corridors to the wing in which his friend was being held. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were both hot on his heels.

When they arrived, John made a beeline for the desk. "Where is he?" he demanded of the nurse, banging the table for emphasis. "Where's Sherlock?"

The nurse was startled. "I beg your pardon?"

"John," Lestrade called to him. "Over here." John looked to see him and Mrs. Hudson standing with Molly not far behind him. He turned on his heel and marched over to them.

"Molly, what do you know? Where is he?" He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared her straight in the face.

"Um, John…?" Molly stammered, blinking. "Would you mind letting me go?"

"Oh." He let go and stepped back, drawing a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh, turning his gaze to the ceiling. "Jesus. I am so sorry." He clenched and unclenched his fists once and continued breathing deeply.

Mrs. Hudson stopped wringing her hands and patted John's shoulder. "There now, dear, we've all had a bit of a shock." She continued patting idly for a moment before resuming her fidgeting.

"Yes, I think we're all a little on edge here," added Lestrade, rocking on his heels, hands jammed into his pockets. "Now then, Molly, if you wouldn't mind filling us in on what you know."

Molly had recovered but still appeared nervous. "I'm afraid they wouldn't tell me anything. They were all rather busy and I was only getting in the way so they made me sit out here and wait. I heard one of them say 'overdose' but I don't know what drug, or –"

"Bloody Hell," John spat. He turned and went back to the desk, addressing the nurse he'd frightened earlier. "Listen, I'm sorry about before, but you've got to tell me where I can find my friend because all this time I thought –" Here he choked on his words. He paused, cleared his throat, and began again. "I need to see Sherlock Holmes. Please." He looked up at the nurse earnestly. "Please, let me see him."

The nurse frowned at him, not unkindly, but as if she was trying to analyse him and show sympathy at the same time. "I'm sorry, who was it you were looking for again?"

Before he could answer, a familiar voice spoke up for him. "Holmes, Sherlock. S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K." Mycroft had appeared, seemingly from thin air, at John's left shoulder. Though his dress was tidy as ever and his voice seemingly untroubled, his face was drawn and pale and he gripped the handle of his umbrella very tightly. He gave John a thin smile. "Hello, John." He nodded at the others.

"Oh, Mycroft, hello. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?" John asked.

"As a matter of fact, John, I –" Before he could continue, a doctor had stepped into the waiting room and announced: "Family of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, that's us," said Lestrade as the lot of them rushed to meet the doctor – all of them quite graceless but for Mycroft, who always seemed to glide somehow.

The doctor seemed to find the rather mismatched band of so-called family rather amusing, evidenced by the slight smirk that broke through her otherwise serious expression. "I have good news and bad news," she told them.

John drew a sharp breath and felt himself, and the others, grow very tense. "What's the bad news?" he asked trepidatiously.

"Well," explained the doctor, "he did in fact overdose on cocaine, which led to what's known as tachyarrhythmia, which is –"

"Fast and irregular heartbeat, yes, we know," John interjected.

"I didn't," Lestrade muttered.

"Yes," continued the doctor – Dr. Norris, her tag said – "and anyway, he nearly went into cardiac arrest, but we managed to get it under control. He's presently still unconscious, but stable for now and being monitored by staff in the critical care unit."

Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. John and Lestrade both swore under their breath. Mycroft seemed largely unaffected – perhaps he had already known the situation before he got there.

"So he's OK? Can we go and see him?" John asked anxiously.

"I can't let you into his room," replied Dr. Norris, "but I can bring you into the ward where you'll be able to see him from outside."

"Well, what are we waiting for, then?" Molly piped up.

"If you'll follow me," Dr. Norris said, gesturing to the double doors behind her and turning towards them, "it'll be just down here."


End file.
